


first bite marks the beginning

by addandsubtract



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Barebacking, Biting, Blood Drinking, Blow Jobs, Complicated Relationships, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:43:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1415515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addandsubtract/pseuds/addandsubtract
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roman is dressed like a businessman – suit and tie and shiny black shoes. No flask in a casually draped hand, no cigarette dangling, roguish, from his lips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	first bite marks the beginning

**Author's Note:**

> futurefic, which could have explored more about what roman and peter have done in the intervening five years, but is actually mostly porn. maybe there will be more exploring later.
> 
> if you find any inconsistencies or typos, feel free to let me know.

Peter has been chain-smoking for two hours by the time Roman’s car, the distinctive red of it, pulls up in the driveway. He’d meant to leave before Roman got back from the Godfrey Institute, but somehow it never happened. Four and a half years on the road, and it took less than an afternoon for Peter to get trapped, again, in Hemlock Grove.

He’s seated on the front steps, back against a stately pillar, muddy boots leaving wet stains on the flagstone. He feels shabby, but he always has around Roman’s things. He’s not a teenager anymore.

He looks up when a car door slams, grinds the butt of his cigarette against the stone by his thigh. Roman is hauling a child out of the backseat, propping him on one hip as he reaches back into the car to grab a briefcase. Roman is dressed like a businessman – suit and tie and shiny black shoes. No flask in a casually draped hand, no cigarette dangling, roguish, from his lips. He hasn’t looked over yet, but he had to have seen Peter when he was pulling up the driveway.

“You gonna say anything?” Peter asks. Roman sets the kid on the ground, and puts a hand on his head, ruffles his blond hair. He can’t be older than five. He looks like Letha.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Roman says. The child reaches for Roman’s hand, Roman takes it, tucking his briefcase under his arm as walks past Peter, up the steps and to the front door. He doesn’t look over his shoulder, but he leaves the door open when he enters. Peter sits for a long moment, and then heaves himself to his feet and follows.

 

Peter finds them in the kitchen, Roman draping his suit jacket on the back of one of the chairs. He’s wearing a light blue button-down underneath, tie already half undone, like he’s an adult and not a 22-year-old kid. The child is eating a piece of toast with blackberry jam and butter. His feet are swinging, not even close to touching the floor.

“Is the kid Letha’s? I thought the doctors couldn’t save it,” Peter says. The kid looks up at him, the kind of gaze that could see right though him, and Peter catches him breath. “What’s his name?”

“My name’s Pete,” the kid says, turning back to his toast.

“He’s mine,” Roman says and, sure, Peter is stuck on Roman naming a kid after him, but even he knows that can’t be the whole truth. “Why are you here, Peter?”

Peter has a response to that planned – _I was in the area and wanted to say hi_ , or even, _d told me I had to go back_ , depending on how Roman seems – but that’s not what comes out.

“I missed you,” he says, and he’d wonder if Roman is forcing him to tell the truth, but last he knew Roman had to have eye contact for that. Peter doesn’t know what it feels like.

Roman laughs. “Oh, okay,” he says.

“I didn’t mean to stay, I just wanted to see if everything was the same.” Peter is still leaning the doorway. He remembers standing in this kitchen in a pair of borrowed sweatpants, eating nearly raw meat with his fingers.

Roman pulls out his chair and sits down. “I don’t want to talk about this,” he says.

Peter doesn’t really, either. Peter hasn’t gotten much better at attacking things head on than last time he was here. He’s a much better pool player, and he’s better in a fight, but communication isn’t his thing.

The silence isn’t long but it is awkward. It might help if Peter knew the actual reason he came back here.

“Daddy?” Pete asks. He has jam smeared at on corner of his mouth, and Peter watches Roman wipe it off with a practiced thumb.

“Yeah, bud?”

“Can I go and play in Aunt Shelley’s room?” Pete’s eyes are wide and guileless. Roman pushes the bangs off of Pete’s forehead with one hand, and then scoops him up, setting him down on the floor.

“Sure, okay, but be careful in the elevator,” Roman says. The kid flashes a smile and then takes off running, the way children do. Or so Peter has gathered, based on his many, many cousins.

“Aunt Shelley?”

Roman shrugs a careless shoulder, one corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. “She writes, she calls, she visits when she can. She gets her room back.”

“So she isn’t dead.”

Roman tilts his head to the side, like he’s thinking. “It’s complicated.”

Peter knows a dodge when he hears one, but he doesn’t want to know, really. “You’re good with the kid,” he says, instead.

“Four and a half years as a single parent will do that,” Roman says. “Why do you care?”

It’s blunter than Peter was expecting.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I just do.”

Roman snorts, and stands. “Whatever,” he says. “I’m going to go change. Feel free to leave again whenever you want.”

He plucks his jacket up off the back of the chair and stretches, heading back toward the main staircase. Peter is alone again, and he could leave this time, but he knows he’s not going to. He picks up Pete’s plate, empty of everything but bread crumbs, and puts it in the sink. Then he follows Roman again.

 

Peter expects that Roman will have moved into Olivia’s room, the master bedroom, but he hasn’t. Even Peter, two towns over and actively trying to forget, heard that Olivia Godfrey was dead. The house seems exactly like she left it, with the exception of Pete’s room, which Peter walks past at the top of the stairs. It’s all red and navy blue and splashes of pink – not the white, black, and gold that made up everything Olivia owned.

It’s not hard to see that Roman knows what he is, now. It’s in the way he walks, he holds himself. It’s in the way he _smells_. Peter wonders how he’s managing the cravings. If he’s managing them.

When Peter makes the turn into Roman’s room, Roman has left the door open. He’s unbuttoning his shirt with one hand, a glass of something amber in the other. More like the Roman Peter remembers than the one wiping jam off of his son’s face. He lets the button-down drop casually to the floor, and then strips off his undershirt, all without spilling his drink. Peter finds himself leaning in the doorway again. It isn’t until Roman starts to unbuckle his belt that Peter sees the scars.

They’re faded almost white, like old scars, but each is easily six inches long and spans the length of Roman’s inner forearm, so they’re hard to hide. Roman doesn’t particularly seem to be trying to, either.

Peter notices, somewhere, that Roman is pushing his pants down over his hips, but then he’s crossing the room and he’s grabbing one of Roman’s arms in both hands without thinking about it. His thumb brushes over thick scar tissue, and Roman reacts like a snake-strike, elbowing Peter in the nose with his free arm. It all happens so fast that Peter is reeling before he’s even fully decided to touch Roman at all, and then there’s blood splattering on the floor. Some of it gets on Roman’s nice shirt, but Peter doesn’t really care. He licks his upper lip and tastes copper, wipes the back of his hand over his nose and smears blood all across his knuckles. Roman’s eyes are wide, like his reaction was as much instinct as Peter’s, and isn’t that just like them? To react entirely without thought?

“Fuck,” Roman says. He’s still holding his drink, but his hand is shaking, now. He downs the rest of it in one gulp, and then drops the glass onto the floor. It hits the blood-speckled shirt with a muffled thud and doesn’t break. Roman’s eyes are focused, hawk-like, on the blood dripping from Peter’s nose. Peter wonders if his blood would taste any different to Roman than whomever he usually gets his fixes from.

“You can,” Peter says, “but you have to show me, first.”

Peter doesn’t know why he says it – he shouldn’t be making a deal like that, especially not with an Upir he hasn’t seen in almost five years. Not when he doesn’t know anything about what Roman has been doing, how hungry he might be. He’s always been reckless when it comes to Roman, though. It’s part of why he left – after Letha, and everything, he was afraid of what he and Roman might do together. Afraid of what they might _be_. Or become. And not just fucking, though he has no doubt about that – he was afraid of the ways they could twist each other up into some unrecognizable shape.

“Peter,” Roman says. He’s clenching his hands into fists. “You can’t just show up now and do this to me.”

“Roman –”

“You should go. Go now since you’re gonna do it anyway. It’s what you do, right? You run?”

“Maybe I’m staying, this time,” he says, and even though that’s the last thing he’s prepared to do, it still feels _true_ , which is just as important. He sucks at the blood threatening to drip off of his lip and watches Roman's eyes focus, his pupils dilating.

“You’re not,” Roman says, but he holds out his arm, and this time when Peter takes it, he holds still.

 

The scars are long and thin and look at least fifteen years old – the kind of scar that won’t ever truly go away, but after a time might look natural. It’s an Upir thing, Peter is sure. When they come back, they come back healed.

He holds onto Roman’s arm with both of his hands, one on Roman’s wrist, the other almost at his elbow. Roman is watching him, intent, but if asked Peter still wouldn’t be able to say what makes him lean down and push his tongue against the scar. He gets a shock, like static, but the taste is all skin. He smells ozone, that magic-smell that Roman used to give off when he turned his eyes on someone helpless, but Roman isn’t doing it, now. It’s just what he smells like. Peter licks again, long flat tongue over raised scar tissue, and Roman makes a noise – a small animal whine pulled from his throat. When Roman doesn’t pull away, Peter scrapes his teeth down the length of the scar and feels the tendons flex as Roman clenches his fist. He pulls away, and Roman’s arm is shiny with saliva and faint smears of pink, where the blood from Peter’s nose dripped into his mouth.

“The other one,” Peter says. Roman holds out his other arm, and Peter gives it the same treatment – tongue, teeth, sucking mouth. Roman moans, a shivering, shuddering thing, and when Peter looks, he can see that Roman is hard in his boxer-briefs. It’s not a surprise, really. They both know what’s going to happen, more or less, when Peter is done.

“Peter,” Roman says, breathy. Peter sinks his teeth into the skin of Roman’s wrist, and then lets his arm drop.

“Your son,” Peter says. “Will he need you?”

Roman stares at Peter for a long moment, considering. His face is void of expression, but his cheeks are still flushed, and he’s still hard. Peter can’t gauge it now, and probably wouldn’t have been able to at age seventeen, either. Roman steps out of his pants and closes the door, flicking the lock.

“Pete knows not to disturb me when the door is closed. Besides, he’ll be busy with Shelley for a few hours.” Roman pulls his wrist to his own mouth, sucking at the traces of blood and saliva Peter left on his skin. There’s something else there – the inference that little Pete already knows how this household is run, and that he’s fine on his own for the hours it takes Roman to satisfy himself – but Peter doesn’t question it now. It’s not really his business.

“Okay,” he says. He would ask something neutral, like, _how do you want this to go?_ but Roman is already pushing his underwear off. He’s pale and lithe and finely muscled, and his dick is flushed red with blood, precome beading at the tip. Peter doesn’t know what he wants, not really, not even given how many times he’s thought about it, so he stays still while Roman steps closer.

His breath catches when Roman goes to his knees.

“Unbutton your shirt,” Roman says, low and hoarse, his hands fumbling with the buckle of Peter’s belt, the fly of his jeans. Peter’s hand are shaking, and so he’s only gotten three buttons undone by the time Roman pushes his jeans down his thighs and presses his mouth to Peter’s dick through his briefs. Peter’s hips stutter, and Roman makes a satisfied sound against the cotton. He tugs at the waistband, and Peter finishes the last button, letting his shirt hang open. It’s a plaid worn so soft that it feels like it might disintegrate underneath his hands. Peter has felt outclassed by Roman – he felt it over and over and most of the time he didn’t even mind. Right now Roman is kneeling naked in front of him, desperate to get his mouth on Peter’s dick, and if that isn’t indicative of the way Roman’s wealth has never mattered, nothing is.

Other things have mattered, though. Things that still might, depending on how good Roman really is at controlling his cravings, and what kind of help he’s had.

Peter thinks this, and then Roman pulls off Peter’s briefs, sucks the head of Peter’s dick into his mouth, tongue pressing against the slit, and Peter’s thoughts skitter away like scared birds. Roman is making soft, pleased noises, muffled by Peter’s cock, and he slowly swallows more, one hand clutching at the back of Peter’s thigh, just under the curve of his ass.

Peter doesn’t know where Roman’s other hand is, but he says, “Don’t touch yourself,” strained and harsh, and then feels sticky fingers press against his knee, his inner thigh, reach up to cup his balls. Roman’s precome, probably, but Peter is too busy trying not to fuck Roman’s mouth to look. It could be blood – that wouldn’t be a surprise from Roman – but he thinks not. Not yet, anyway.

Roman’s mouth tightens as he sinks further onto Peter’s dick, swallowing around him, tongue stroking the vein on the underside and making Peter see sparks. Peter wonders, fleetingly, if Roman has done this before – he must have, surely – but Peter hasn’t, and so it’s hard to know. He’s thought about it, he’s thought about Roman, but no other boys sparked his fancy. He reaches down to card his fingers through Roman’s hair, mussing the slicked back ‘do, and surprising a moan out of Roman. The sound vibrates around his cock, and Peter clenches his hand in Roman’s hair, pulling taut as he tries not to choke Roman with his dick. Roman’s fingernails dig into his thigh.

When Peter thinks he can stand it, he looks down. Roman is staring up at him, mouth working around his dick. Roman’s pulling his head against the hand Peter has in his hair like he wants more resistance, so Peter tugs again, harder, and is rewarded with another moan, the fluttering of Roman’s eyelids. He looks decadent and ruined, his mouth spread wide around Peter’s cock, his pale skin and dark hair, his flushed cheeks and hard dick.

“You were made to suck cock, huh,” Peter says. He wants to push his fingers against Roman’s cheeks, see if he can feel Roman's mouth around him. He wants to push his fingers past Roman’s lips, give him something more to suck on.

Peter’s hips are shuddering, now, and he’s not going to last long. Roman’s mouth is tight and wet and hot, and he _wants_ it so much – he’s still making small sounds, moans and whimpers and tiny whines, like he can’t help it. His fingers move from the back of Peter’s thigh up to his ass, and Roman’s mouth slides down the last inch, so his nose is pressed to Peter’s public bone. Peter can feel him swallowing spasmodically, perfectly, and when Roman’s fingers sweep between the cheeks of Peter’s ass, brush over his hole, that’s all Peter can take. He doesn’t give Roman a warning, just pulls hard on his hair, back arching as his hips push forward, coming in pulses down Roman’s throat.

Roman chokes for a second, startled, and then swallows. He gets almost all of it, but Peter can see a trickle of come escape from the corner of his mouth. His fingers are still rubbing over Peter’s hole, and Peter is trembling all over, knees about to give out. Roman pulls off when a wet pop, his lips swollen and red. He licks his lips, wipes his hand over his chin and then licks that too. He looks up at Peter, and he doesn’t smile – he looks satisfied and wrecked and turned on, his dick curving up toward his stomach, chest heaving as he breathes. 

“You can fuck me if you want,” Peter says. He’s not thinking, and the sharp jerk of Roman’s head tells him Roman knows it, too, but he doesn’t take it back. Roman’s fingers are slipping between the cheeks of his ass, and he wants it.

“I don’t want to use a condom,” Roman says. “Not to fuck you.”

Peter thinks about that, thinks about how Roman is going to be licking the blood off of his face – how Roman may or may not bite him, anyway, and thinks it probably doesn’t matter. He’s a werewolf, and Roman is Upir. Diseases don’t work the same with them.

“Yeah,” he says, “okay.”

Roman looks at him for a long moment, and then leans in to kiss the top of his knee. It’s strangely affectionate, and Peter isn’t sure what to do with it. It’s been too long, and he’s not sure he can read Roman as well anymore. “Get on the bed,” Roman says. “On your back.”

Peter shrugs off his shirt, steps out of his jeans and underwear, and then he goes. The blood is drying underneath his nose, and he’s never been fucked before. He’s never really wanted to be.

He looks up at the ceiling, the Victorian molding trailing around the edges of the room, and so when Roman touches his stomach with a flat palm, he makes a surprised noise. Roman crawls up onto the end of the bed and looks at him, solemn. His eyes are on the dried blood, even as his hand smoothes over Peter’s skin.

“You gonna bite me now?” Peter asks, feeling strangely okay with it. He’d meant to be gone before any of this could happen, and maybe he’ll regret it later, but right now he’s sated and languorous, rolling his head to the side to better look at Roman.

“Do you want me to?” Roman asks.

Peter thinks about it. He can almost see Roman’s pulse pounding against the fragile skin of his neck – Roman hasn’t come yet, and he’s restless with it.

“Rather you fuck me, first,” Peter says, and draws his knees up until his feet are flat on the bedspread. Roman inhales, sharp. Peter smiles.

Roman leans in, then, and licks at the blood drying on Peter’s face. His tongue is delicate, like a cat, Peter lets him, and when Roman licks into his mouth, Peter lets him do that, too. The kiss is wet and slow and tastes of blood, but Peter wouldn’t expect anything different of them. Roman is still making noises, little breaths and moans – Peter wasn’t expecting him to be expressive during sex, but it’s hot, the way he can’t help himself.

When Roman pulls away, his mouth is red from kissing and the blood he’d licked from Peter’s mouth. He’s smiling, wide and sharp. He leans off the side of the bed and digs around in the bedside table’s top drawer, pulling out a tube of lube.

“Ready?” Roman says. He’s pressing his hips into the bedspread, rutting against the fabric.

Peter watches the faded scar on the inside of Roman’s arm twist as he opens the lube. “Yeah,” he says.

 

Two fingers in, Peter is gasping for breath, staring at the way Roman is staring at his own fingers pushing into Peter’s body. It feels – weird, and slick, and _full_.

“I’ve never done this before,” Peter says, and he’d regret the floaty, vague tone of his voice if not for the way Roman’s eyes widen, jerk up to his face. Roman pushes his fingers back in, and Peter shifts, canting his hips into the pressure.

“I have,” Roman says. His voice is hoarse. “But most of the time I just thought about you.”

“Fucking or being fucked?” Peter asks, and then arches, moaning, when Roman bites into the skin of his inner thigh. Not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to remind him of the fact of Roman’s teeth.

Roman’s tongue is soft over the bite, and when he pushes his fingers back in, there are three of them, wet and slippery, a stretch, though not a painful one. “Both,” Roman says. “Mostly the latter. Always thought you’d be the one doing the fucking.”

“Maybe –” Peter says, and breaks off on a gasp as Roman’s fingers press up and in and brush over his prostate, sending a wave of pleasure radiating out from his hips to the tips of his fingers, the soles of his feet. “Maybe next time.”

Roman doesn’t say anything to that, just starts to fuck Peter in earnest, firm pressure and steady, unyielding movement. Peter gets lost in it, in the feeling of Roman’s mouth on his skin, Roman’s fingers moving inside of him, the broadening pleasure of it as his body warms to the feeling.

He swallows a plaintive noise when Roman pulls his fingers out, and only realizes that he’s closed his eyes when the weight shifts on the bed. He opens them to Roman leaning over him, between his spread thighs, hand braced by Peter’s head.

Roman’s other hand is on his own dick, slicking himself up with lube. His eyes are almost all pupil. He slides his dick between the cheeks of Peter’s ass, just thrusting there – one, two, three times. It’s maybe the dirtiest thing Peter has ever experienced. Roman’s mouth is pursed, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He lines up and slowly, slowly pushes inside.

Peter’s mouth falls open involuntarily, and he swallows hard, trying not to move too much, trying not to push into it or pull away. He can’t – he doesn’t know how it feels, weird and good and almost too tight, like if Roman moves too fast he’ll rip Peter apart. It’s funny, because that’s how it’s always felt, to Peter – like if he gives in, lets Roman have everything from him, Roman will open him up like a dissected frog and remake him into something else. Right now that doesn’t seem like such a bad thing, as Roman’s cock slides into him, steady and inexorable. Peter works on remembering how to breathe.

When Roman bottoms out he stills all over, cursing underneath his breath, and presses his forehead against Peter’s collarbone. He stays there for a long moment, his breath humid and hot against Peter’s skin. Peter shifts his hips, digs the heel of one foot again the top of Roman’s ass, urging him forward.

“Move,” he says, and Roman does. It’s like a pane of glass breaking – the stillness in him shatters, and he’s baring his teeth, hips snapped forward as he starts to thrust.

“Christ,” he says, “christ.” His eyes are too wide, and his mouth pants open, his whole body moving as he fucks into Peter over and over. Every time he hits Peter’s prostate, Peter can’t help shuddering, tightening around him, which makes Roman fuck into him harder. Peter watches the sinuous movement of Roman’s muscles, the way his arms flex and his abs contract and it almost feels too good, being fucked when he knows he’s not in any shape to come. He could stay like this forever and just let it happen, but Roman – Roman is desperate, completely undone and it shows in the whites of his eyes, and the sweat trickling down the side of his face, and the way he can’t stop looking at Peter.

“C’mon,” Peter says, heel pressing into Roman’s ass, hips moving into each thrust. “Roman – c’mon, haven’t you been waiting long enough?”

Roman makes a sound that’s almost a sob, and Peter would kiss him, maybe, but Roman digs his teeth into Peter’s neck, instead, and this time he draws blood. Peter can feel it in the way he can smell magic meet, sometimes, like the buildup of energy before a lighting storm. Like waking up from a shared dream. It feels electric, and so, so fucking good. It feels like someone is stroking him all over, inside and out, and touching him everywhere, places no one has ever managed to reach, the crucial beat of his heart and the spongy inside of his lungs. He makes a noise that might be Roman’s name, and Roman is swallowing Peter’s blood and still fucking him, the push of his hips going erratic as he starts to come. Peter can feel it inside him, magnified and compounded until he’s not sure where his body ends and Roman’s teeth and dick and skin begin. The world goes white, and Peter goes with it.

 

When he wakes up Roman is on top of him, licking blood off of his skin, thumb brushing idly over one nipple. Peter can feel Roman’s come leaking out of him, and it’s gross but still makes a shiver run up through him.

“How long was I out?” he croaks.

“Five minutes.” Roman’s voice is muffled by Peter’s skin. Peter is wrung out and exhausted and he’s pretty sure he’s never felt more awesome after sex. Letha was close, but Letha wasn’t Upir.

“So how’s my blood taste?”

“Different. Addicting,” Roman says, and kisses him. He tastes even more like blood, this time, and Peter’s neck doesn’t even hurt. It’s a sleepy, sated kind of kiss – neither of them have the energy for anything more strenuous, but Peter enjoys the way Roman’s chest expands when he breathes. Peter can feel his heart beating through the skin and bone of his chest. He’s alive, and he’ll be alive for a very long time. Peter bites into Roman’s lower lip, and Roman pulls away. “Are you going to leave, now?”

Peter wants to touch his neck, see if there are still marks from Roman’s teeth. “I don’t know,” he says, but he’s lying. He knows. He just can’t say it yet.

Roman rolls onto his back, and snorts. “If you stay, we’re going to end up here,” he says. “If you stay, I’m going to bite you again. I won’t be able to help myself.”

“Yeah,” Peter says. “I know.” He knows that, too. It doesn’t matter.


End file.
